Page 41 of Offside Angle

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask, my voice rising a little. “He annoys me to no end.”

Lena raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed by my reaction. “Does he?” she asks calmly. “Because you usually don’t run away from a fight.”

I let out a short, frustrated breath.

“That was not a fight,” I counter, shaking my head. “That was dinner. With my parents. And some guy from high school who won’t stop making everything awkward.”

Lena stays quiet for a second, studying me with an expression that says she’s not buying any of this. If anything, the faint smile tugging at her mouth makes my defensiveness feel even more obvious.

I run a hand over my face and stand, starting to pace in front of the bed.

“He shows up out of nowhere and acts as though nothing ever happened, as though we can pick up exactly where we left off. It’s annoying. That’s all it is.”

Lena tilts her head slightly. “Mats,” she says, “you left the table the second things got even a little personal. That doesn’t really scream ‘he just annoys me.’”

“Well, that’s all there is to it,” I say, trying to sound firm.

“Then stop acting like there’s more,” she counters.

The arena is quiet this early, just the way I like it. I got here before anyone else, and I’ve been walking slow circles around the ice shooting the empty rink from every angle I can find. Low from the bench. High from the stands. The way the light hits the untouched surface. It’s peaceful. No one performing for anyone yet.

Last night still sits in the back of my mind, though. Dinner at Matteo’s place was… something. His parents welcomed me back with the same warmth they always had. Lena spent half the evening watching the two of us with that sharp, assessing expression, clearly putting together pieces she didn’t particularly enjoy finding. And Matteo himself sat there wound so tight I kept waiting for something to snap. I didn’t push too hard on purpose. Not really. But watching him try so hard to keep everything in its neat little box while I sat across from him… it was hard not to poke. Just a little.

I’m lining up another shot of the goal crease when the big doors at the far end slam open.

Matteo storms in with the energy of a man personally offended by the building.

He’s moving fast, hoodie thrown on over whatever he slept in, hair a mess, shoulders tight with whatever’s been eating at him since last night. His eyes lock on me immediately. I lower the camera and turn as he cuts straight across the rubber toward me. He came here looking for a fight, and judging by the way he’s walking, he fully expects me to give him one.

He doesn’t slow down when he reaches me.

One second I’m standing there, the next his hand is fisted in the front of my shirt and my back hits the boards hard enough to make the glass rattle. The cold seeps through my jacket instantly. I stay loose in his grip, letting my shoulders settle against the surface while I glance down at the hand pressed flat against my chest. Then I look back up at him.

“Listen here, you little shit!” Matteo starts, the words spilling out so fast he’s clearly been storing them up since last night. “You don’t get to just show up at my house like that. You don’t get to sit there with my parents and my girlfriend and act like you fucking belong there. Like nothing ever happened. Like you can just—”

He keeps going, anger pouring out of him in a messy rush. I don’t interrupt. I don’t push his hand away. He called me “little shit.” Cute. We both know I’m taller than him and a year older, but I’m not about to point that out right now. Not when he’s this worked up. Not when his fingers are twisted so tightly in my shirt that letting go seems completely out of the question.

I tilt my head a little and study him. His jaw keeps clenching between sentences, his eyes too bright and too raw. He’s furious. Exhausted. And underneath all of it, there’s the same conflict I saw across the dinner table last night—half of him ready to shove me away, the other half fighting the urge to drag me closer. I can work with that.

I let the corner of my mouth twitch, just enough to be annoying. “Keep going,” I say, almost lazily. “You’re doing great so far.”

I watch the twitch hit his eye the second the words leave my mouth. It’s small, barely there, but I catch it anyway. That little flicker of irritation mixed with something hotter underneath. He hates when I stay calm while he’s coming undone. Always has.

Matteo’s grip tightens on my shirt before he shoves the words out like they’ve been burning a hole in his chest.

“Why? Why are you here? My life was perfect!” he shouts, close enough that I can feel the heat of it against my face. His voice echoes off the empty ice and the glass above us. “Everything was fine until you showed up with your camera and your fucking nicknames and that look like you know something I don’t. You don’t get to just walk back in and fuck it all up!”

I let him yell. I don’t push back. I stay pressed against the boards where he put me, one corner of my mouth curved with entirely too much amusement. Because I am enjoying this. Not the shouting part. The part where he’s finally saying some of it out loud instead of choking on it at dinner tables and pretending nothing ever happened between us.

When he finally pauses to breathe, I tilt my head and let my gaze drop to his mouth for a beat before bringing it back to his eyes.

“Does your girlfriend know you’re yelling so close to my face, cariño?” I ask. “Or are we keeping this little reunion just between us for now?”

His jaw locks so tight I can almost hear his teeth grind. The hand on my chest is still there, holding me in place, and I can feel every tremor running through it. He’s furious. He’s exhausted. And he’s balanced right on the edge between punching me and doing something much worse—something we both know has been in his head since the second I walked back into his life.

Mats suddenly releases my shirt and jerks his hand away. He takes a step back, running both hands through his hair with a frustrated groan that echoes through the empty rink.

“You know what…” he mutters, annoyed, “I don’t know why I give you so much credit for fucking shit up.” He laughs once, short and bitter, the sound aimed more at convincing himself than me. “You’re nobody.”